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Crankiness, couture and craziness

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GRUMPY GRAY AT THE GOLD

With the bitter cold and grayness of February just ahead, it seems as though everyone has adopted a nasty temperament of late. Perhaps it’s just excessive crankiness left over from our New Year’s resolutions to abandon all things unhealthy, addictive, illegal and immoral, but, wow, is everyone mean lately.

Last Friday I fled the widespread wave of nastiness and took refuge at the Gold Dollar to hear the psychobilly stylings of Eight Ball Grifter and Dangerville. There were still plenty of hostile people there, but at least I found a few happy faces too.

One such face belonged to the beauteous Becki Hall, who has plenty of reasons to grin, being recently engaged to her sweetie Abbott from Hated and Proud.

Also overwhelmingly pleasant were bartender Mark Trevethan, chef Liz Patrick, Verge (what he was on the verge of was not apparent), Heather Pace and giggling girls Danielle Alfaro and Allyssa Aurella.

Not to mention the nice boys of Eight Ball Grifter: Johnny Diablo, Knuckles and ladies’ man Wade Royale, who had all the girlies sighing and left a trail of broken hearts in his wake.

Dollar head honcho Neil Yee tried to trick me with a fake name, but he was just kidding — I think. Photographer Andrea Myers was twirled about on the dance floor by Jacob Revorie, who said he couldn’t tell me what he does for a living lest he’d have to kill me, and we both decided this was not a viable option. He was just kidding too — I think.

High Priest of the Bar Elite Eric Hughes was celebrating a birthday and hanging out with the purveyor of the Detroit Diesel Dame zine Wayne Pritchard of the Intoxicats, as well as Damian Ward and gothabilly man Alan Contino of Delerium Films, who was in cahoots with independent film director John Byrd.

I also met plenty more civilized adults, but then some stupendously mean person stole my purse, which contained all my remaining notes and my favorite lipstick ever, which has been discontinued — may you forever burn in hell, you heartless bastard.

ABSOLUTELY ABSOLUT

Liquor and fashion, now there’s a winning combo. Accompanied by Arizona transplant Joe Colburn of www.gotblack.com, I caught the very tail end of the Absolut Couture fashion show at the Majestic Theatre on Saturday, long after the free booze had run dry and the models had finished their strutting (not one of them fell down once — how blasé).

For a whopping $25, you got some finger food and a bag of stuff so you too could be a corporate billboard, with logos on your chest, car, key chain, even your — OK, who’s responsible for the 89X condoms?

Mad props go to the affable Philip Fortier, who tried to get his money’s worth by leaving with as much food as he could stuff in his pockets, and not the least bit covertly.

Reaching new heights of blatant self-promotion, albeit very cleverly, was Motor DJ Adriel Thorton, decked out in a T-shirt emblazoned with the phrase “Absolut Adriel.” Cute.

Speaking of blatant self-promotion: The venerable Casey Coston was on the prowl, having just come from a DJ gig of his own at the Fanclub Foundation for the Arts’ annual Swingtime party at the Fisher Building, which featured live music from Paul King and the Rhythm Society Orchestra, who will play Decadence on Feb. 2 at the Royal Oak Music Theatre (an event which will be MCd by yours truly).

I also chatted up graphic designer Marcie Platt, who just returned from a week in LA and says she briefly hung out with Johnny Knoxville, the host of the new MTV bodily function humor extravaganza, “Jackass.” If you have yet to see the show, the basic premise consists of Knoxville and his cohorts in really stupid, dangerous and disgusting exploits, such as intentionally shooting oneself with a Taser gun, diving into a kiddie pool filled with elephant poo, swallowing goldfish and puking them back up, and jumping from a second-story window. For some inexplicable reason, it’s painfully funny.

OK, kiddies, an update on the status of the old Blue Moon: It’s coming soon. No, really. Original owner of Motor, Steven Sowers, says the building’s new incarnation, Radar, is still in the works.

In case you haven’t been keeping track, here’s the holdup, according to Sowers: A year-and-a-half ago he purchased the liquor license from DeJohn Mafale and began working on repairing and revamping the building in January 2000. Unfortunately, in March of last year the beloved Mafale passed away, which caused his entire estate — including the liquor license — to be thrown into the lengthy process of probate court.

However, Sowers says the matter has been resolved recently, and although he hasn’t given an estimated opening date, he says the new watering hole will indeed open in the near future, barring any unforeseen setbacks. In the meantime, he’s working on bringing The Wizard/Jeff Mills to the State Theatre on March 1 for a five-hour retrospective set of electronica.

Whenever it happens, Radar will be a welcome addition, as the Blue Moon was a fabulously cozy, stylish-without-trying little spot. The thought of a new bar in Detroit that isn’t a “Super-Huge Mega-Sexy NY-Style 20 Floors Of Superficial Depravity And Thumping Bass For A $500 Cover Charge So You Can Look Ultra-Hip Sipping Your $50 Watered-Down Cocktail As You Swap Self-Inflating Lies With Vapid-Important-People In Designer Knockoffs In The Way-Elite Private Lounge”-type place?

Halle-frigging-lujah.

Sarah Klein writes here every other week. Got gossip, party invites, desperate pleas for attention? E-mail looselips@metrotimes.com, or call the tip line at 313-962-5281. Press * then dial